The golden rope didn’t look like cordage. It looked like a living, segmented centipede forged from liquid sunlight.
Vice-Inquisitor Kuang Yan hurled the ancient object from thirty paces.
The Imperial Dragon-Binding Cord whipped through the smoke with a high-pitched, metal hiss, its barbed golden links expanding in mid-air to encircle the five-inch rim of Meng Shan’s Black Magnetite shield.
Once bound, the ancient object was designed to channel four thousand pounds of nonstop high-pressure tension. It pulled the shield-bearer off balance and exposed his flank to the repeating crossbows.
Meng Shan heard Shen Yue’s warning.
He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t hesitate.
With the gut trust of a veteran who had fought through five years of underground carnage, Meng Shan dropped his hips six inches. He tucked his helmeted head flush against the upper rim of his shield plate.
Above his head, the air split with an electric shriek.
